where men have taken pride in wearing plaid with plaid, the absurdity of a man in a cape playing golf cannot easily be explained. On top of which, Excelsior holds his driver as if it is a bird that he has crushed the life out of, and keeps on crushing, just to be sure. His practice swing is a cross between a slap shot and a seizure.
Topper laughs. He has finally found someone with an uglier swing than his own. One of the damned mocking the other. Edwin reserves judgement. The look of a swing matters little. What can he do with it? With this kind of thinking, Edwin tries to insulate himself from surprise. He believes that he is prepared for anything. Edwin is wrong.
With a grunt, Excelsior heaves the club backwards. As he begins his downswing, the corner of his cape wraps around his driver and locks off on itself. Excelsior lunges forward with all of his mighty strength. The club bends in half. Excelsior pulls himself off-balance and falls down just as the carbon fiber shaft explodes. Lying flat on his back, he tries to piece together what has just happened. The unmolested golf ball still sits on the tee.
Now, Topper is overcome by a fit of hysterical laughter. The caddies snicker. Even Edwin permits himself a smile. Excelsior stands and brushes the club fragments from his hair. Only Judge Perkins manages to keep a straight face. “One,” he proclaims solemnly.
“What do you mean? I didn’t even touch the ball!”
“Rule 14,” says the Judge, “forward motion made with the intent of fairly striking at and moving the ball. One stroke.”
“What about my club?”
“I don’t think it will do you much good now,” says the Judge, with no humor.
Excelsior accepts another club from his caddy. This time he makes contact with the ball. There is an awful, hollow sound. The ball rises quickly, but leaks off to the right, disappearing into the rough, nearly three hundred yards from the tee.
Edwin wins the first two holes without incident. After his drive, Excelsior removes his cape and plays as an ordinary man would. Badly, but not supernaturally. On the fourth hole things get interesting.
It’s the first par five of the round. Straight open, straight ahead. The wide, welcoming fairway is marred only by a single pit bunker. Again Topper begs Edwin to use his driver. Edwin ignores him, as does his caddy. Edwin calmly knocks his ball 280 yards out into the middle of the fairway. Solid, but uninspired.
“That’s noble work ya doing there, grinding it out,” says Topper.
As Excelsior surveys the hole, he has a feeling that it is his time. This is the way it always happens. He starts off taking it on the chin. He gets knocked through buildings, maybe blasted by a few energy bolts. Then, just when everyone has started to lose hope, he rallies and wins the day in a spectacular fashion. Usually with an uppercut.
“Windsor, I’m going to put this one on the green for you.”
“Best of luck,” Edwin says.
“You don’t think I can do it?”
“We’ll find out soon enough.”
Excelsior turns back to his ball. He’s got it figured out. He has been tensing too many muscles. The muscles weren’t doing anything useful. They were fighting each other, rather than letting the physics of the swing work for him. But maybe, just maybe.
He takes the club back slow and accelerates mightily as it comes back through. His wrists unlock and BOOM! The head of the club is moving so fast that when it hits the ball that the golf ball explodes.
“Son, I’m getting tired of your shenanigans,” says the Judge. “Are you going to settle down and play golf, or are you going to keep this up the whole round?”
“But I’m not trying to…” Excelsior beats his club against the ground in brute rage.
“And that’s another stroke,” adds Topper cheerily.
“Aw come on!” protests Excelsior.
“Yeah you big flying boy scout, you might as well just give up now,” says Topper.
“No penalty,” says the Judge, “Rule 5, paragraph 3 — if the ball breaks into pieces as the result of a stroke, the stroke shall be replayed without penalty.”
“All right. Win one for the good guys. Throw me another ball there caddy.”
Topper sneers at the mention of the ‘good guys’, but Edwin’s face remains serene.
Excelsior smiles as he tees his second ball. Finally, something has gone his way. He has gotten a lucky break.
“Keep your head down,” says his caddy. Keep your head down. Like you were in a war. And wasn’t he? Excelsior has always believed that golf was a game for old, fat men, but now that he’s in it, he is surprised by how much pressure the game is putting him under.
Excelsior strikes the ball well. It only flies 320 yards, but this does not bother Excelsior. He tells himself that he will have it figured it out by the end of the round. But his childlike joy at this shot slips away when he remembers that he has lost every hole up to now. But this is it. This is the turning point. No doubt about it.
Edwin plays a fairway wood for another 230 yards. This leaves him a straightforward pitch into the green. Topper watches it with a frown, “No imagination. No daring,” Topper says.
“Would you be content with a hole in one?” asks Edwin.
“Only if it had style.”
In spite of himself, Excelsior is beginning to like Topper. At least he was game. Unlike the bloodless ghoul he is matched against. What’s the point of winning if you can’t enjoy it? This time, Excelsior steps up to his ball with total confidence. His caddy hands him an iron as if it is some mighty weapon from a Norse saga with a string of unpronounceable consonants for a name.
And then, in the long light of the early morning, with the strength of a god and perfect lie, Excelsior swings. The club head coiled around his body, even as his hips and shoulders begin to turn in the opposite direction. By the time the club head starts down, the momentum of the swing is transformed into a force of nature. His wrists unlock at the perfect moment. And, as the full power of the motion is about to be transferred into the ball, Excelsior lifts his head and contacts the ground three inches behind the ball. The ball squibs its way 30 yards down the fairway.
Excelsior realizes that he is going to lose this hole. And the next hole. And all the holes after that. And he will have to play all of them. Even though he knows how it will turn out. He sneaks a furtive look at the judge and wonders which rule and paragraph covered slaughter?
He tries to steady himself. He hates this game with every fiber of his being. It is a devilish creation. A way for the weak and decadent to mock the strong and virtuous. He could reduce this golf course to a wasteland with three quick passes.
His caddy taps him on the shoulder, “Yer still away.” Make that four passes, thinks Excelsior. A fourth pass just to make sure all the caddies are dead.
Miraculously, mercifully, Excelsior’s third shot makes the green. He misses his putt and leaves it 6 feet past the hole.
“Would you like to know what your problem is?” Edwin asks.
“People like you who make money off the misery and suffering of others?” Excelsior returns.
“No, no, no. With your game. You’re not used to working at anything, it’s all been given to you.”
“How about you play your ball and I’ll play my ball and you play a little side game of shut up,” Excelsior counters.
Edwin sinks his putt. “Birdie,” he says, as he wins another hole.
Now Excelsior thinks about losing. Losing the side, losing the match, losing the bet. He will have to grant Windsor a free rein, allow him and his clients to operate with impunity. With each step it sinks in a little more. Because of him, the good guys are going to lose.
Chapter Fifty-Three. The Turn
